


we have all been here before

by chalmskinn



Series: it's been a long time coming [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Homecoming, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalmskinn/pseuds/chalmskinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Loki likes to remain in a suspended world of possibility and take advantage of what comes his way.</i>
</p><p>How do you find your truth in a world of pain and doubt?<br/>(Or, how do you find your home?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LONG-COMING (boat/plane/back)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young's 'Deja Vu'; sequel to 'a fair wind', 'sing in silent harmony', and 'gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit' - please have read them before this!!!

Snake winding, coiling, spitting river - green and rough, jagged and sharp. All edges and curves. Wet and pungent, slippery weeds slapping the edge of the boat, stroking the hull, a siren’s arms, luring and teasing: “ _come to us_ ”. A spray of tepid, warm water hits their faces as they speed around the corner. Planes are in the air, high and low, and they are near.

Loki runs his swollen fingers through his damp, oil-slick of hair, away from his dripping pores, and the bead of sweat hanging on his brow, to fall to the tip of his nose and to his khaki clothed knees, where it would grow, and grow, and grow, being fed by the litres and litres of sweat dripping from his pallid body. He gazes up to the murky and grey sky, to the clouds that hang and threaten, and to the storm that brews, sitting like a fur shrug on his shoulders - heavy, warm, and unwelcome in such humidity - the storm threatens - a migraine for James Buchanan Barnes, the man radiating a sick temperature to his left - his tense head, filled with terrors and dreams of the past, safety, and pleasure ( _not pain, please no more pain_ ), resting on the hard metal of the railing, his singular arm looped through the bar, where his fingers squeeze the bridge of his nose, his eyes sewn shut with tension and more force than Loki felt he could muster under the direst of circumstances.

Bucky bites his lip, and blood rises to the surface. Loki licks his lower lip and tastes his own blood, blood that is not there, the blood of past lovers, the blood of Thor - the sweet, bitter crimson blood of his brother who seems to exist only in the vast universe of Loki’s mind. Where is Thor? Who is Thor? His golden radiance is metaphysical in concept, and Loki struggles to remain faithful to the idea, the religion, the cult of Thor Odinson - a name that rings deep in Loki, in a soul, that had it not been for this complete worship and strange devotion, appeared almost fictitious.

Why remain worshipping at the temple of something that fails you? That you fail?

_I would die a martyr for this cause. Drink the wine of my blood and understand my sacrifice._

He would die for others to feel the love of the heavenly, golden Angel, Deity, God, whatever else, Thor. Allow others to be consumed by the privilege. Consumed by the love.

Love.

Bucky loves. He longs and he yearns for a similarly good, ethereal, and golden being - one made of justice, anger, and love. He regards them as a stranger now, and Loki weeps for him - Loki vows to aid the rekindling and steer, whilst Bucky holds the map and guides. Steve. Sweet Steve. The truest of loves.

The boat’s engine groans and sighs as it’s stopped, and docks, unloading man after man. Loki’s fingers ghost over Bucky’s shoulder, and he rises slowly, pressing his hand to his forehead, dragging his palm over the deep creases, trying to relieve an eternal stress as they depart from the boat, towards the plane, destined for the blue skies and sharp air of home. They were going home.

Loki inhales slowly. The earthy, wet air hits his sinuses, and he closes his airs, feeling the warmth coat his throat, and fill his lungs. His mouth quirks in an unintentional smile, and Bucky raises an eyebrow in silent reply. Loki softly shrugs, and he focuses in on the open door of the plane, where a queue of men wait, having their names ticked off from a list, and Loki savours the feeling, the feeling of going back, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a sweet triumphant sound rings, a symphony of joy, and sadness, and he is overwhelmed by the impending loss of purpose.

Who is he now?

Where is he going?

He does not know what is true or false any more. What awaits him. Who awaits him. Who remains.

“Name, soldier?”

His head snaps up, and he is met with the cold stare of a senior officer. He wets his lips.

“Odinson, sir.”

“Ah, Loki, the brother of Thor.” The lieutenant smirks, and he continues. Loki longs for the warm welcoming smile of Thor, and he scolds himself for it. He should focus on the future, and his prospects, and the possibilities.

Thor is a possibility. He is not a certainty. Perhaps remains the true word, the word that Loki has seared into his mind - a word with possibilities, not certainties or truths ahead. Loki likes to remain in a suspended world of possibility and take advantage of what comes his way.

Bucky pushes him forward, filling the gap as the queue files into the plane.

The atmosphere is strange as they wait to leave the green depths of the Asian jungle - it is silent, yet full of so much implied excitement, fear, and joy. Somebody laughs. A deep, rumbling laugh, that reverberates, and soon they are all laughing. Some softly, some hysterically. And Loki’s laugh hurts, not through force, or through pain, but he feels strange, and he doesn’t understand, but he smiles.

They’re returning.

Back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the beginning of the end, I think! this will be three parts and then I feel like I'll put this to rest. this chapter was inspired partially by Oliver Stone's 'Platoon', and the song 'Exxus' by Glass Animals.
> 
> thanks :*


	2. TIME-COMING (return)

He was made fun of incessantly by his platoon for his impossible-to-erase, Eton-soaked, received-pronunciation. His accent remained as strong as it had been during his years boarding at the public school, in contrast to his elder brother, who became increasingly mid-Atlantic as the days and the years passed (it was understandable, as Loki had stayed in England to attend Brasenose College, Oxford; whereas Thor had returned to the US for further education), and despite the softly-toned General American voice of his mother, and his father’s gruff South Wales valley accent, Loki's accent remained somewhat of a talking point and novelty within his home-town and amongst his peers.

The waitress pouring his coffee in the small diner, twenty minutes away from his parents’ home, seats herself opposite him in the booth intended for four people, a look of wonder upon her face. Her freckles are a work of art hung across the high points of her face, bronzed by the summer sun hanging low in the blue sky, and her strawberry blonde hair reaches the slight curve in her lower spine in delicate mermaid-like waves. She licks her plump bottom lip, and smiles, looking up at Loki from under her long and thick eyelashes. She is a goddess, who deserves a crown, but instead wears a thick Alice-band, and serves coffee and pancakes all day, instead of being worshipped like she should.

Loki slips off his light jacket, and places his steepled hands on the faded-yellow table. “I’m sorry, miss - can I help you with anything?”

Her mouth quirks and her sky-blue eyes seem to twinkle with mischief. “Did you hear that Dylan’s gonna be playing that festival in NY? Tickets are gonna be free, all you gotta do is turn up. I just hope my boss’ll let me get off, y’know? I mean, it’s just in our backyard, ain’t it, so it’d be a shame to miss whoever’s gonna be there, and there’s rumours flyin’ about that John Lennon’s gonna make an appearance - that’d be wild.”

He picks up the container of sugar and pours until the bottom of his mug is carpeted. He stirs the coffee three times in a clockwise motion, and removes his spoon, placing it carefully on a clean paper napkin. “I’m more of a Crosby, Stills, and Nash man, actually. I like the simplicity and easiness.”

She rests her chin on her hands, her pupils becoming slightly more dilated, and her chest raises in quicker breaths. “You’re just back from ‘nam aren’t you?”

Loki raises his left eyebrow, and takes his metal cigarette case from his trouser pocket. She lifts a lighter from her yellow dress’ breast pocket, and lights the cigarette between his thin, bloody-bitten lips. He speaks around the cigarette as he cups the flame, “Am I that obvious?” She laughs, and shakes her head.

“I’ve never seen somebody look so tired in my life. You look like you’ve lived a-thousand deaths, and are heading to your next one. Not that you don't look good, though.” He shrugs, and blows a plume of smoke from his mouth, “You musta just got back if you’re a CSN fan - that record’s pretty new.”

“My brother’s a Buffalo Springfield fan, so it was only natural. We were deployed together, so the LP was his task to find in Hanoi. He found it.” Loki smiles sadly, “I don’t know where he is though. I hope he has the record, wherever he is.”

“You on your way home?” Loki nods, and she touches his free hand with her small, soft hand reassuringly, “He’ll be there. If not physically, spiritually. The soul and the body are separate, and he’ll return to you in one form. Soul mates, platonic or romantic, don’t stray too far, y’know.”

She lets go, and stands up without a word, taking back her lighter and her jug of dark black coffee, disappearing to Loki, as he takes a drag of his cigarette and leans back in the PVC-coated bench, closing his tired, bloodshot eyes. His mind wanders and expands.

Did his brother die? The berserker-rage that often overtook him in battle, petty or war, was set off by the most minor of things - and Loki’s grave injury most definitely would have caused the sky-blue eyes to turn to a pool of black ink, where eels stung and vicious creatures of the sea devoured each other, and his fists to tighten, trigger-finger to itch, and tunnel-vision to set in. Their mother, dear, beautiful, and golden Frigga had always said that Thor’s reckless rage would get the better of him, and his eternal love for Loki would someday ruin him. Frigga’s intuition had never been wrong, and Loki feels fear coil around his heart like the gold enveloping the daughter of Midas, slowly becoming unmoving and still: dead.

The pungent scent of coffee hits Loki’s sinuses and he picks the warm mug up, and he drains the cup, enjoying the scalding hot pain as the black, syrupy substance travels down his esophagus, warming his cold bones. He pulls a five dollar bill out from his soft leather wallet, places it on the table, and exits the diner with haste, eyeing Bucky’s old, worn car in the corner of the parking lot. He opens the door on the driver’s side, and rolls his shoulders, looking to the back seat, and meeting Bucky’s cold stare as he lies down, failing to get any sleep. “Who’s the broad?”

Loki shrugs, and turns the key in the ignition, “Don’t call women ‘broads’, it’s demeaning. And she’s just a local who just happens to get incredibly turned on by my accent, and wanted to talk Bob Dylan to me.”

“Your accent ain’t worth nothing more than my left ass-cheek, no matter how much your daddy paid for your finishing school.” Loki snorts, and Bucky turns away from him, as the engine rumbles. “Where we going now?”

“Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the waitress in my head is Sigyn, so I guess in another life, or maybe even this life, Loki would have married her. she looks like Gigi Hadid, and I don't know why I didn't give her a name, maybe it's too much 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia' convincing me that 'The Waitress' is actually a good name for a character, idk!!! I've also added another chapter, because this one was longer than I'd wanted. and some historical info right here: Bob Dylan expressed interest in playing Woodstock but had prior commitments, and my favourite band ever, CSN, did indeed play and wrote the song 'Woodstock' to commemorate the momentous occasion. this is the rockin' jam: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKdsRWhyH30
> 
> thanks :*


	3. HERE-COMING (arrival)

The car stops at the bottom of the long driveway, and he bites his lip with some pressure as he walks towards the faux-marble pillars in the distance, the warm summer breeze catching on his unkempt and unwashed hair, which blows in the wind like ink in a murky water, or chimney smoke on a foggy day. His mother’s front garden flourishes - the flowers in bloom, and the trees, which were falling with golden and bronze leaves, left sparse and skeletal, as he last remembers them, are full and voluminous with young leaves gently moving in the breeze. The grass grows neatly and uniformly, and the air smells of the freshly cut grass, warm sun, and the petrol from his father’s ageing but trusted lawnmower. It’s pretty, and it’s unchanging - like a memory from the summers of his youth, where he and Thor would be wind-milling and cartwheeling down the slight slope of the hill, laughing freely and carelessly, as their skin tans (and burns), and their knees are cut, and their palms are grazed, but their smiles are wild, toothy (and gappy), and unfaltering.

The metal of the door knocker is cold against his palm, and reminds him of the sanctuary knockers of the British cathedrals of old - garish, heavy, and offering safety and asylum to the lost; he drops the weight onto the tall, white, wooden door twice, and he waits, eyes cast to the ground, wringing his hands. His twin in mind - a tiny, sprightly, runt of a cat, green of eye and black of fur - runs to him, and winds around his willowy legs, purring and rubbing her little face against the rough grey denim of his jeans. Loki bends at the knee to reach his companion and presses his lips to the soft fluff of her forehead, stroking along her spine, and up her tail which curves at the end into a broken loop.

The door opens, and his attention disappears from his sweet cat to the golden woman standing in the doorway. Her wrists drip with Cartier bangles, a priceless heirloom on each finger, and her palms are soft against his cheeks, smelling of Chanel, and feather-light as her fingertips trace the contours of his face, placing the new gaunt, skeletal, and tired shapes to her memory. Her lips are dry from her nude matte lipstick, but they feel like home against his nose, his temples, his chin, and his cheeks; her cheeks are damp from silent tears as he mirrors her, his hands tracing her face, committing her eternal, immortal, ethereal beauty to the core of his brain, to his other-wordly soul which waits in another realm, happy, whole, and by the side of his one true friend, brother, lover: soul mate. Frigga is static and her memory will never fall from his grasp. She is the comfort in a world of hurt, and the deepest of septic wounds become a dull, painless throb in her warm embrace.

They enter the house with the soft pad of feet, the gentle knocking of jewellery, and Frigga’s subtle sniffing. She leads them to the kitchen, where all is marble, gold, and white. He sits at the breakfast bar on a leather stool, and flicks through the enveloped letters addressed to him and his brother that had sat untouched in a pile, until Frigga had glanced sadly toward them. She places a delicate bone china cup and saucer in front of him, and drops three sugar cubes into the bottom with a upturned nose. “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten how to make my tea.” He remarks, taking the hot tea pot from her readied hands, and pouring to just over half way.

She smiles and passes him the jug of milk, shooing away the little cat whose interest had been piqued by the dairy. “I am sure that it is supposed to be the other way around. My son should be making a cup of tea for me, am I not wrong?” He pours the milk until the tea is a light beige, and he stirs with a smirk upon his face. “I’ve missed that.”

He lifts his gaze to her warm stare, and he wets his lips, teeth scraping against the bottom. “Missed what, mother?” She pushes herself atop the counter, and she kisses his forehead, tucking her golden hair behind her ears in a girlish manner. She dips her finger in his tea, and catches the drips in her mouth, scrunching her face up at the sweetness on her tongue.

She breathes in and runs her sun-kissed, freckled hand through his ebony hair, pulling him to her chest and inhaling the scent of his hair. “I’ve missed you, and your smirk, your smile, your unintentional sweetness, your empathy, and your smell. You are my baby bird, and although the nest is no longer a requirement, I will never let it break apart in the rain, the wind or the storm. You are guaranteed safety, and happiness, and joy here, my sweet boy. I will always be here, Loki.”

“Where is here?” He murmurs softly into her warm embrace.

She pulls him closer, “Here is an infinity. Here is not relative, here is absolute, and here is the truth. You must find it where you need it.”

“How, mother? How does one know?”

“Search for me, search for the here, the constant goodness and constant safety. It is all within you. Do not search too far.”

He melts into his mother, and he is here, yet he is not completed. But it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long - my exams have finished and I'm back from my holiday, so y'know, hopefully i can get back into the swing of things. there should be one chapter left in this, which I'm quite excited about writing - it's gonna be very Virginia Woolf, which thrills me like nothing else in the world!!! 
> 
> thanks! :*


	4. HOMECOMING (welcoming)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Son by Warpaint (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAB4kz4Itiw) and Lost in the World by Kanye West (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofaRvNOV4SI) inspired this heavily. Give them a listen.

The sun hangs low in the sky, and the sky is a peeling tangerine. Bucky sleeps in the back of the car, tangled in his red and cream crocheted blanket, his one hand gripping the bandaged stump to his side, fingers threading through the frayed, fuzzy and soft wool. Loki folds, unfolds, and folds the tiny piece of paper in his right hand, rubbing his thumb over the imprint of the numbers on the page, forcing them into his skin, into his muscle, into his blood. The coordinates lead to an old family holiday home. The memories are foggy, and hazy, and acidic in scent: the wood rots in old age and the paintings are faded, he decides. The two single beds are pushed together, and Thor is sprawled across them, smoking a cigarette, and drilling a pocket knife through the moth-eaten covers, and into the bed-bug ridden duvet, Loki decides.

The car door opens with a creak, and a gun is to his head in a blink. Loki rolls his eyes, and he sits before the wheel, fishing out a tatty map from the glove compartment, and double checking his assumptions. His companion breathes heavily through his nose, and clambers into the passenger seat, grasping at Loki’s hand for balance. His voice is low, and hoarse from poor sleep and too many cigarettes. “You got it?” He clears his throat, and takes the piece of paper, narrowing his eyes at the map, “The Hamptons? What business you got down there?”

Loki unbuttons Bucky’s breast pocket, and takes out the pack of Marlboro Reds, putting a cigarette between the man’s teeth-worried lips, and keeping one between his middle and index finger. Bucky flicks his lighter, and holds the flame over Loki’s cigarette and then his own, watching the burn with his eyes cast downward. Loki breathes in the smoke, and looks to the other man, turning the key in the ignition, “My father has a lake house from his army days. We used to summer there when we’d return from boarding school. Mother said it’s the best place to find oneself. It’s here.” Bucky narrows his eyes in confusion, and takes a contemplative drag on his cigarette.

“We’re here? Hold your horses. We ain’t in the fuckin’ Hamptons yet, pal.” Loki sighs, and takes one hand from the wheel, placing his finger at the top of the brown haired man’s Adam’s apple and drags down.

Bucky stares with wonder, unspoken questions on his lips. “Do you feel that emptiness that just sits inside of you, and grows, and decays, and erodes, until you are just a shell? A husk, or a dead man walking. _Here_ is the wholeness, the happiness, the security, the state of being content, and full of light. _Here_ isn’t just a fucking location, it’s an emotion, a state, and that’s the state I’m reaching for, and I’m stretching for, and I strain, and it’s still too far, but I’ll be damned if I can’t get here. I want here.” He stabs his finger into the dip in Bucky’s clavicle, his other hand white on the wheel. Green eyes look into blue with a desperation, “Get here. Find here. Don’t wallow.” Loki sinks, and sinks, into the worn leather of the seat, and all he is now is a throb, a deep throb, an ache in the centre of his being, in his core, and Bucky’s hand grips onto his shoulder.

The radio is static, and Loki reverses back, into the past, and he is the passenger, in the back seat, and the windows are open, a blanket on his grazed knees despite the dry heat, Thor’s tanned legs across his lap, the thin golden hairs catching the light and flickering with a glow, a healthy glow, which always juxtaposed Loki’s angelic, deathly, pale, snow glow; he is the Arctic fox, and _He_ is a lion - you wouldn’t place them together, on the same plain, yet here they are, living in co-existence, together, as young brothers. And then he and Bucky are on the road, gone, driving, forward.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is gone - the moon is here, and the vast expanse above is a warm indigo, dotted with the bright chrome of the stars, so far away, so large, but tiny enough, right here, right now, to pinch tightly between fingers. Cicadas chirp from the branches of the trees that hang low in the sky, damp leaves caressing the back of Loki’s neck as he walks forward. The smooth wood of the steps up to the porch creaks under his boots, and it breathes out the warm sun kisses of the passed daylight. The spare key from under the worn doormat is gone, and Loki turns the handle, eyes flickering in the light of the altar candles that sit atop the kitchen window ledge, his skin warm where it has always been cold.

The house smells as it always has: musky - the sickly vanilla of the wood, the smoke of the fire and the cigarettes and the candles, and something distinctly home. He leaves his boots at the umbrella rack by the door, and splays his toes in the soft yet horridly discoloured sheepskin rug, rolling his feet from side to side. He follows the light of the candles in the kitchen, running his hand along the back of the single, pulled out chair, to where wax drips onto the ledge of the window, burning long and low. An ashtray sits on the table, filled with stubs, and stinking of ash, next to an intricate Waterford crystal vase, filled with drooping and browning daffodils. The record player has been moved to the kitchen counter-top, the cable stretched long and tight across the surface, and the needle caught at the end of the vinyl; Loki lifts the arm, and slips Led Zeppelin I back into its dog-eared sleeve, filling the house with the creaks of the floorboards, the gentle night-time breeze, and the singing of the insects lining the trees.

A warm amber glow radiates from upstairs, from the dust coated orange and yellow Tiffany lamp on the bedside table, moved from between the twin beds to the corner of the room. As he had suspected, the two beds are pushed together, the blankets a mess atop of the mattresses, and a deep viciously cut and dug hole in the corner of the bed closest to the window, an ashtray of half burnt cigarettes on the wooden floor, and the dulled black phone off the hook, hanging from the bed, a low, long tone ringing out. Loki sits, and runs his hand over the covers, pulling them up, and resting his head on the dried patches of blood left on the white sheets, from bloody knuckles and broken mirrors. There are blood drips left on the floor leading to the bathroom, but it isn’t a problem. The problem is the lack of black hairs on the pillows, only long, lone golden blond strands that don’t belong on their own. He breathes in the scent of Thor, the clean, soap, leather, and grass aroma that has sunk and become one with the bed.

He leaves his jacket on the bedroom floor and returns downstairs.

Frigga’s paintings have gathered dust, and the curtains are moth-eaten as he opens them to peer out to the dark lake. Odin’s chair remains unmoved, facing the fireplace despite the warmth, and the scotch ages atop the mantelpiece. He takes a crystal tumbler, and pours two fingers of the potent liquid, throwing it back and revelling in the burn, his shoulders and his neck twitching in reaction. He places the glass on the coffee table, and opens the French doors onto the back porch, where he stares out into the fog and the darkness.

“Thor?”

He hears a whisper of his name, and a flash of pale gold in his eye line. He steps forward and places his hands upon the wooden bannister, and breathes in the fog, his lungs filling with white air. He looks above to the stars, and they blink back at him, and he is bigger than them in this moment, distance feeding him power. He steps back, and removes his jumper, folding it neatly, and placing it down on the decking. His trousers follow suit, folded carefully and put to the left of his jumper. He slides his briefs down, and places them atop his trousers, and unbuckles his watch, and takes off his dog tags. The air is warm, and pleasant against his nude body, and he pads down the stairs, his mind clear, only stars and water, and the pale gold in the distance.

There is a dark, drip trail to the lake, and Loki follows, his head light, and his chest warm. The dirt doesn’t settle on his feet, but he feels every particle between his toes, and he welcomes it. The dirt becomes more course at the edge of the lake, but he does not hesitate, and he walks in, the water melting his naked body, and he swims forward, and he swims forward, and he treads the water, his now clean hair sticking to the back of his neck like smoke.

The pale gold comes forward, and swirls around him in a blur of colour in the darkness, and he tries to focus, and he falls under, and under, and there is Thor, and they emerge from the water, melded together at the mouth, golden hands in ebony hair, blood running down a pale face to pale shoulders, and down the golden arms in a watery red. “You are here,” Thor whispers breathlessly, as their mouths separate wetly, and their legs entwine under the water, like weeds.

Loki stares deeply into the never-ending black of his lover’s pupil, no blue to be found, and they drift, and he is warm, his arms around the thick neck of Thor, and his long fingers in the length of blond hair. He feels like a blur, and it is fine. He does not feel like an entity, he is half of an entity, and now he is whole.

“I am here,” Loki replies, and they are the water, black, gold, green, and dripping, bloody red, sinking, sinking, sinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading this - this is the end of the series, and i really appreciate anybody who has managed to unpick and unravel the writings of a stream of consciousness obsessed teen girl. I hope it wasn't too sad, or disappointing, and things were wrapped up well enough. i'm happy with where it ended, and after a few attempts and loss of work from app crashes, i think it's turned out okay!
> 
> thank you so much again :*


End file.
